Don’t bring me flowers…

I often don’t understand why people love receiving flowers, especially a bunch of freshly cut flowers.

As somewhat a practical person, I much prefer a vegetable bunch, beautiful colour mix, thriving and ready to be consumed.

You may say that’s extreme. Ok then, let’s meet half way. How about pot plants or potted flowers in lieu of the freshly cut flowers? Don’t you think flowers belong to the garden beds? They look so at home and divine in their natural nursery.

I have had that preference for years, not remembering when did I actually start such weird preference.

Recently I traced back the times I did receive flowers. Sure enough, I finally realised the ‘Why’.

Firstly, in the second year I moved from Guangzhou to Sydney. I answered the door bell. There was Currier service delivery for me. After signing the receipt, I opened the box. There were a bunch of long stem red roses lying in the box. They didn’t make it all the way from Guangzhou to Sydney. They lain in the box, withered, lifeless. I counted there were 11 long stem red roses. I didn’t take them out of the box. I didn’t feel right to disturb them. I put the lid of the box back, neatly tied the ribbon again. It was like a burial. The 11 long stem red roses just lain in their coffin. The bundle of breakup.

Secondly, it was at the airport, I was greeted with a bunch of vibrant colour flowers. It was somewhat a surprise, at the same time, the dread feeling made my inside turned. What I discovered later prove my dread. The bundle of apology.

Lastly, I was at work. The office was busy as usual. I had a meeting out. When I returned, I was told there were flowers delivered to me. My heart sank. I reached the flowers, before I looked at the blooms, I read the card attaching to the bunch. I called the person who sent me the flowers, just in time to catch him out of another suicide attempt. The bundle of farewell.

There was grief relating to the receiving of these bunches of freshly cut flowers. The beautiful blooms, the fragrance, the artistic composition remind me of the tragedy moments in life.

The comfort is there are alternatives, be the bunch of fresh vegetables, be the potted flowers, or at its best, leave the blooms in the garden bed where there is life and pleasure to the viewers.

“It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.”
― Maud Hart Lovelace, Betsy-Tacy and Tib

Sweater – College Poems

right after she farewelled campus life
she packed a shoulder bag
with his sweater tight around the strap
got on the first coach
without looking back
salty drips swallowed in an empty stomach

she woke up in another city
launched herself into hustle bustle
isn’t it how old memory fades
with new scenery created
if only autumn lasts for 6 months

sense of smell may linger a life time
it wasn’t a calculated risk to
tight that sweater
it was part of her too anxious to let go

first snowflakes falling from the neon sky
one lands on her lips
she holds up his sweater

catching the rolling tears
warming her frozen cheeks

she misses him









I am capable of dark
when faced with your obsession

I’ve never promised you love
let love not be the string that weights down your soul

Your promise of one and only and eternity
shattered by the wild flowers lingered around your lonely heart

If I were the marrow of your bones
you so willingly broken for
If I were the air of your life
you so desperately gasping for

Let your cheating deceive me
Bury your confession to rot your conscience
Why treated me with contempt
choked me with your truth

My life was not ruined
instead, was on a marry-go-around
‘he can’t be trusted’ demon sound
tossed me from my peaceful island
each and every time

Now you prostrate before me
with a dagger twisted in your gut
pleading forgiveness for your obsessed soul’s release

My eyes on you are empty windows
Your gushing blood on my fingers like frost

I am capable of dark
when faced with your obsession

Wild Horse

love runs like an unchained wild horse

leaching hooves on the thorny path

raging thunder acoustic lightning

escaping deep into the night shadows

abandoning the tiresome despair

flesh and soul burning them all

hysterically chasing her lover

leaving behind the dying breath as

echos in barren




Ice n Fire

(Fire and Ice – painting by Michelle Meister )

I am an intense person

in a quiet way,

often you don’t notice

till you are in close contact,

and most people don’t get to that vicinity.

If you are dancing around the edge,

testing the temperature and atmosphere,

Don’t be!

You will get a chill,

feeling alone and morbid.

You will only pierce me with fire and flames,

the same intensity of my ice sculpted palace.

If you are expecting mashmallows, vanilla sky, warm and fussy,

Don’t be!

I am an intense person,

a Rinko waiting for KÅ«ki to

ignite the Lost Paradise!

* A Lost Paradise is 1997 novel by Japanese author Junichi Watanabe.